A Year at the French Farmhouse(25)

‘Very funny,’ she said, attempting to wipe mud from her jeans and spreading it further in the process.

‘Ah, but I am sorry!’ he said. ‘Are you all right, Madame?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘thank you.’

‘Zen can I esk,’ he continued, ‘what you are doing at zis ’ouse?’

‘I’m just…’ she said, then, tired of half-yelling over five metres of garden, she said, ‘Just a minute,’ and began to negotiate the pathway again.

This time the thorns seemed thicker, the nettles stingier, the stone under her feet more uneven and precarious. The fact that she was trying to move more quickly than before didn’t help matters and she tripped a couple of times, ripped her now ruined T-shirt on a thorn and had an altercation with the biggest hornet she’d ever seen.

All the while, Random Frenchman stood and watched with twinkly amusement rather than trying to part some of the brambles for her, or give her a hand over the tangled mess towards the end.

She emerged feeling an odd mixture of guilty and angry, and half glared at him.

Seemingly immune to or unaware of her anger, he reached forward and gently pulled a twig from her hair. His brown hair was flecked with natural highlights from the sun when viewed up close; his eyes green and earnest and crinkled around the edges. As he leaned forward, she smelled a mixture of fresh bread, coffee, soap and aftershave. It was a heady cocktail.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘you realise zat thees is preevate property?’ He smiled, curious rather than annoyed.

Despite still feeling a bit irritated at the fact he’d watched her struggle up the path, she found herself instinctively smiling in return.

‘Oui, yes… I was just…’

‘And I am afraid zat if you are interested in la maison, it’s solds,’ he said, shrugging as if fully giving in to the stereotype. All he needed was a beret to complete the picture.

‘Yes, I know. I’m… in fact, it’s sold to me. I was just…’

‘To you? You are zee purchaser? Zee buyer?’ he said, his eyes widening.

‘Yes. I am… I’m going to sign the compromis de vente tomorrow, demain. I just thought…’

‘You are Mrs Buttercup?’

‘Butterworth. But… yes.’

‘Zen I am very pleased to meet with you!’ he said, placing his pain down on the wall, seemingly not worried about the grubbiness of the stone or the proliferation of insects. ‘I am Frédérique – zee vendor.’

‘Frédérique? You’re the mayor, er, le maire?’

‘Oui, Madame, at your service.’





9





Lily bit into the warm, buttery croissant and closed her eyes.

‘Iz everything OK?’ a voice asked. Chloé appeared at the side of the breakfast table, holding an espresso cup filled with strong black coffee.

Lily felt her cheeks flush slightly. ‘Yes, yes, it’s fine. It’s just so… well, it’s the dream, isn’t it?’

‘What iz?’

‘Fresh croissants for breakfast, coffee on the terrace. I feel as if… well, I’ve just fantasised about this life for so long,’ she said.

‘You do not ’ave croissants in Angleterre? And café?’

Lily reddened, realising how ridiculous she might sound. ‘We do,’ she said. ‘It’s just… somehow it’s not the same when you’re eating them in the kitchen before work, instead of looking out over…’ she gestured to the view that tumbled away from the B. & B.’s small terrace ‘… all this.’

Her host looked at the view and shrugged modestly. ‘It iz OK, I suppose, eh!’ She set the cup down next to Lily. ‘Your coffee.’

‘Thank you.’ Lily eyed the tiny cup suspiciously. ‘Do you have any milk?’

‘You want milk?’ Chloé looked surprised. ‘But you said un café?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lily said, lifting the tiny cup to her lips and sipping the bitter liquid. ‘Mmm, lovely.’ She smiled, trying not to grimace. Next time she would remember to ask for café crème. Or perhaps tea.

Chloé was looking at her, amused. ‘It iz too strong per’aps?’

‘No, no, it’s lovely. Thank you.’

She looked again over the view and thought about yesterday’s encounter with Frédérique. It had been a bit embarrassing at first, but somehow his easy manner had meant she’d soon relaxed and stopped feeling a bit like a would-be burglar caught red-handed. Once they’d cleared up any misunderstanding, she’d explained that she had just been trying to take a little look inside. ‘But I can come back wiv les keys?’ he’d offered. ‘I ’ave them all chez moi – at my ’ouse?’

In her usual fashion, she’d refused, not wanting to be any bother – then kicked herself for being so pathetic as soon as he’d left. She would have loved a look around. Still, the fact that he was so chilled out about it all suggested there weren’t any nasty surprises lurking inside.

She was still the only guest at the small B. & B. and was beginning to feel as if she wasn’t a guest at all, but just a woman who’d moved in with her glamorous friend, albeit for eighty euros a night. Last night, they’d enjoyed dinner at the same table – a three course feast prepared by Chloé, who’d behaved as if it was perfectly ordinary to enjoy duck à l’orange on a Monday evening. They’d chatted about the house, about Lily’s appointment this morning. About Frédérique.